


Desperado

by darkersky



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkersky/pseuds/darkersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Your prison is walking through this world all alone.</i>
</p><p>You can run and you can hide, but there are people who will always find you no matter how hard you try not to be found.</p><p>(A non-magical AU inexplicably set in the 90s. Contains guns, criminal activity and probably some questionable fashion choices.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperado

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who said nice (and not so nice) things to me while I was writing this. I couldn't have done this without you <3
> 
>  **Content warning** for violence, substance abuse and references to drugs.
> 
>   
> **Art by** [helishdreams](http://helishdreams.tumblr.com).  
>   
> [Listen to the AWESOME mix by helishdreams HERE](http://8tracks.com/helishdreams/desperado-a-sq-mix)  
> 

**Desperado**

 

**PART I**

 

_Cuando el mundo pierda toda magia_  
 _Cuando mi enemigo sea yo_  
 _Cuando me apuñale la nostalgia_  
 _Y no reconozca ni mi voz_

(Dúo Dinámico – Resistiré)

 

**April 1994**

 

That's her mother and she's dead.

She's not the woman she was waiting for all those years. The picture perfect maternal figure, someone who loved her and when she left her, she left her because of that love. Someone who wanted to give her her best chance. This woman is definitely not that woman. That woman was someone she dreamed up somewhere between homes and families that were never hers. That was the mother she thought of every time yet another family sat her down and she saw that certain expression on their faces. The one that meant her things were probably packed and ready to go already. The one that they said meant, "We are sorry, but this is something we just have to do," but, as she had learned, actually meant, "You are not good enough and we never loved you."

That woman loved a prince. The prince was her father. He had kind eyes and rough, tender hands, and he told her stories about shepherd boys, kings and wicked witches.

This woman is not that woman. No, this is the one the press kept calling Snow White. "That's not her real name. Why don't they use her real name?" she used to ask her third foster father – the one who was kinder than the other two she'd had.

He always sighed and put his beer down on the table, placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. "It's complicated. These are adult things. You'll understand some day."

She was a fucking stupid child.

"Fuck you," she whispers. "Fuck you very much." She trails her fingertips lightly over her mother's hand. It's a cold, cold hand, grayish skin and bloodless veins. She hates the way she feels her bottom lip start to tremble and soon she will crumble, she knows she will, and she hates that, too.

Because that woman is still her mother and she's dead and she never got to know her well enough to understand why.

"Why, mom?" she whispers. "Why would you do this to me?"

Her mother doesn't answer. Of course she doesn't. She's dead.

 

**September 1991**

 

She has to spend one last evening with them. She probably shouldn't, but she has to. The gun is in her bedside drawer. She knows no one is going to go snooping around and find it accidentally, because even though it's not a written rule, they respect each other's privacy in this house. That's what they have learned to do through trial and error.

There's nothing special about the dinner and, well, she's no Jesus, but it feels like her Last Supper (and oh, if the love of her life wouldn't be proud of her if she knew that's what she's thinking about – the da Vinci painting and everything), and swallowing is therefore a chore. Afterwards, she doesn't even remember what it was that they had.

Not immediately starting on clearing the table earns her a soft swat on the shoulder with a dishtowel, but there's nothing but dry amusement in those dark eyes that are so soft sometimes. "Daydreaming, are we?"

"Sorry, I guess I spaced out." She musters a smile. Smiles are good. No one ever notices anything beyond a smile.

Almost no one ever notices. "Something wrong?" The eyes are now completely sharp and focused, but the question is asked in a softer voice. The son needn't worry about these things. That's a mutual agreement. He doesn't need to know if something is wrong between his mothers.

She shrugs. Nothing's wrong. Other than every single thing in the world. "No, of course not. Just... Thinking about work stuff." It's a lame excuse, she knows. And she knows she's not the only one who knows that.

"Hmm?" There's that skeptical eyebrow thing. Dang, she loves that eyebrow thing.

"It's nothing really." She's still smiling. No one is more impressed by that than she is. "I'm gonna start on the dishes."

Just moments later their son is talking about something, endless chattering filling the kitchen where she's elbow-deep in soapy water. She tries to pay attention, a little too hard maybe, because he gets that look, that look that means he's annoyed because _are you even listening_ , but she's trying so hard to make sure she will remember everything about his face that he has to ask three times before the question even registers with her brain. "Can I? Please?" He's doing that thing with his most persuasive puppy eyes and a slight pout, which probably means that he's asking for something big.

"Sorry. What?" she asks.

His other mother sighs. "We'll talk about the Nintendo if you can keep your grades up until Christmas."

"Christmas?! That's so unfair." His voice takes on a whinier tone. He's such a kid even though he pretends to be so big sometimes and in those moments it's easy to forget just how much of a kid he still really is.

She blinks and squints at him, utterly confused. "Wait, don't you already have a Nintendo?"

"Well, duh. This one is not just a Nintendo. It's a Super Nintendo."

"What's the difference?" she asks, because talking is easier than thinking about how much she just wants to say yes, yes, you can have anything you want as long as you will eventually forgive me for what I'm about to do.

He talks about graphics and cartridges and Super Mario and she nods and nods and nods. Finally he ends his sales pitch with a head tilt and one more, "Please? Moms? I'll take the trash out for, like, a month. And I won't ask for anything for Christmas."

His other mother shakes her head. "Homework," she says very pointedly.

Apparently he understands that it's a losing battle because eventually he mutters something about having evil parents, shakes his head and says he's going upstairs to finish his homework. She wants to hug him or kiss his face a million times, wants to boop his nose and tickle him until he's giggling, wants to say, _I love you, I love you, I love you_ , but she can't so she swallows hard and says, "Okay. Good luck with--" She swallows again. "--that. And hey, don't stay up too late." But he's already halfway up the stairs by the time she's finished and probably doesn't even hear her in his indignant sadness brought on by his continued Nintendo-less existence.

She will risk one look at him once he's asleep. Just one. Anything more and she won't be able to leave.

*

One last night. She stares at the back of the head that used to drive her mad, but now she knows with absolute calm clarity that it's the first and only back of a head she could possibly be capable of needing to protect this much.

"I love you," she whispers without actually meaning to.

The mattress dips, and then there's a sleepy brown eye that peers at her. "Are you quite alright?"

"What? I can't tell you I love you for no reason?"

"You were fidgeting."

"Sorry. I guess I can't sleep."

"Is something bothering you?"

"No." But this time she can't, not for the life of her, procure a smile.

There's a cool back of a hand on her forehead, checking for an imaginary fever, she knows, and she wants to roll her eyes, because it's so ridiculous, being an adult and only now having someone who gets concerned, but she doesn't, because there's a painful lump in her throat. She takes the hand in hers, kisses the tips of each finger.

She takes it all in. The sleepy eyes. The sleepy hair. The sleepy skin. _Beautiful._

There's the slightest narrowing of eyes, as if checking if she could be hiding the symptoms of some terrible disease or horrible sorrow after all, a sigh, and, then, a sleepy kiss on her forehead. "Go to sleep, dear."

She's staring at the back of a head again.

She doesn't sleep that night, but she tries to lie as still as possible. She listens to the sounds of steady breathing (inhale, exhale, living, breathing) and for once she wishes they weren't both people who need space. She needs to touch, to hold, to feel and taste – to _love_ every inch of sleepy skin, but that would be something out of the ordinary. Not to mention any attempt at anything that could be characterized as cuddling would probably result in an eye roll and an ' _I'll have to be up in four hours.'_

The thought of never being at the receiving end of that eye roll makes the lump in her throat grow.

She needs to remember all of this. The boy who is still just a kid. The warmth of the bed and the way morning sunlight caresses the skin she loves so much.

Remembering will hurt like a bitch, but forgetting is not an option.

*

They can't know anything. That's the worst part.

The only thing she can tell them without compromising their safety is what she writes on the Post-it note she leaves on the kitchen counter

_I'M SORRY._

She knows that adding an _'I love you'_ would probably just feel like a punch in the face. Besides, they will have absolutely no reason to believe that after she's done what she's about to do. She knows she wouldn't.

*

Early birds are singing when she leaves the house, slips out quietly, like a ghost, like she used to in the beginning when they were just learning how to do all of this.

She doesn't look back. One look and she couldn't leave.

*

The first time she cries is when she sells her car in Tallahassee.

It's not the car she's crying about. It's everything.

The man with greasy hands and bloodshot eyes offers her a roll of bills. There's a cigarette hanging loosely from one corner of his mouth.

She counts the money, bites her lip and nods.

The 1983 Honda Civic she spotted in another dealership is gray, not glaringly yellow, and, thus, a much safer ride, but tears roll down her cheeks as she watches the man with greasy hands get in her car and drive away. The car is going to smell of cigarette smoke. She was always so careful with that car.

It's not the car she's crying about. It's just that now everything finally feels like nothing.

 

**PART II**

 

**December 1992**

 

Everywhere is the same. No matter what bar she enters, no matter what back alley shop or gym or warehouse, it's always the same. It's gritty and it's filthy and no one ever knows anything worth her time.

The underworld. That's how it feels. She's become one with all the grittiness and filth of the world. In a way, she is exactly where she belongs.

Sunlight would expose her for who she is and that's not something she can afford right now. Sunlight wasn't in the cards for her. She basked in it for a while, but then it was this darkness again. The darkness is merciful, but it's cold. This time around she doesn't even have a lousy thief with her. That thief betrayed her, but for a while it almost felt like companionship. Love, even. Not that she knew much about love at the time. That came later.

She hasn't been quite sober in three days and that's a blessing, not a curse. It's December and that's when it all hurts the most. The remembering.

She wonders if the son she had no business raising ever got the Super Nintendo.

"Una cerveza, por favor."

The tattooed bartender takes one look at her, raises an eyebrow.

She doesn't exactly fit in in the bar, but she has a gun in the inside pocket of her oversized leather jacket. Border control is a joke around here.

There's some muttering to her right and she sees two tough-looking guys deep in conversation, their eyes lingering on her. She tries to look as indifferent as possible. Stirring up trouble wouldn't do her any good. They can't possibly recognize her – not with the dyed hair and brown contact lenses, but the paranoia is always there. Everyone could be someone who's working for _them_. They are very good at this game.

It bothers her that she can't quite make out what the guys are talking about. She should have learned more Spanish and not just enough to tease Regina by singing horribly mutilated versions of her favorite songs. Regina always sighed and rolled her eyes and said, "No, that's not how you pronounce _magia_ _,_ " but, ultimately, she'd always seemed rather pleased with her efforts.

Now, if only she'd made more of an effort. More than enduring the occasional movie with subtitles.

The beer tastes horribly bland, but she's not here to have fun. She's here to gather information. No one seems to know anything, however. It's as if the ground has opened up and swallowed her parents.

No matter where she goes, it's always the same. No one knows anything, but occasionally there's a look of panic in someone's eyes at the mention of her parents.

*

It's almost Christmas Eve and after a few more cervezas, the temptation is suddenly too much. She has Graham's phone number written down on a wrinkled piece of paper, just in case, and that's the number she dials from a payphone.

"Hello?" a voice, distant, distorted, answers, and she is suddenly fully aware of the fact that she's calling at 3 a.m.

"It's me," she says.

"Emma?" Suddenly he sounds like he's wide awake. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," she says.

She hears a sigh. "Good. I'm... glad to hear that." There's a pause and, then, "Why are you calling?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, leans her forehead against the cool glass of the phone booth. She has no idea why she's calling, but she knows there's one thing she needs to ask more than anything. "Is... Are they safe?"

"Yes, of course. They are both safe. Both Madam Mayor and your son."

She feels a single tear make its way down her cheek. Damn it. It's mostly relief. Mostly. It's also equal parts missing them more than ever. Then something about what Graham said finally hits her. "Wait, _Madam Mayor_?"

Graham chuckles. "Yeah, she won the election."

"She did?" The perpetually painful lump in her throat makes itself known again. Her voice sounds completely unfamiliar to her own ears when she says, "She must be happy." God, she wishes that's actually the case even though a part of her knows it's not that simple.

"I suppose. It's..." Graham's voice wavers. "It's hard to tell."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." There's a silence that makes her heart skip a few beats. "Where are you? You sound like you are in a cave."

"I have to go," she says. She doesn't wait for Graham's reply before she hangs up. Her hands are shaking violently and not just because of the drinking.

Calling was a mistake. She has more questions than answers. But at least she knows they are safe. And that Regina won the election. She wonders how she celebrated the victory. If she did.

She forgot to ask if Henry ever got the Super Nintendo. It feels very important for some reason, but she supposes she'll never know.

She shouldn't have called. That's what she's still thinking about when she's lying on a hard motel bed, counting blood stains on wallpaper and it's 6 a.m. and almost Christmas.

 

**August 1993**

 

The police raided some poor fucker's house and found meth and two kids. She wants to put a fist through the screen of her TV.

When the social workers took her in when she was three, they called the cops, and the cops found really rather damning evidence in the house.

They found remains of coke (and she was a fucking stupid child for the longest time and never understood why the press kept calling her mother Snow White) on the glass coffee table in the living room.

Her parents were nowhere to be found.

She doesn't remember that. She's only seen the official paperwork that states as much. What she remembers is a vague, faded image of perfect teeth and lips red as blood and skin white as snow and eyes that smiled at her. And somewhere in the background, a father's kind smile. Twinkling eyes, strong arms, handsome and dressed like a prince.

She's pretty sure she doesn't even really remember that. She's probably just remembering the blurry pictures of them she saw on TV and in newspapers and those have become mixed with the drawings she saw in a storybook somewhere. Apparently, at some point, she'd indeed turned her parents into fairy tale characters in her head.

She might have told Regina all that, the horrible truth about her parents, at some point, but what really always stopped her was the fear that then it would have become about Daniel and that was a topic they both liked to avoid as much as possible. Regina almost never talked about him, but when she did it was after a few glasses of wine and with such vitriol that she knew she could never tell her it was people like her parents who ultimately killed people like him, even if indirectly. The way Regina talked about Daniel painted a picture of someone who was perhaps too sensitive for this world. He was one of those people who are constantly looking for a buffer of white noise, something comfortably vague – something that turns the sharp lines of this world into something pleasantly smudged.

She knows Regina had been there when he overdosed, but the details always remained fuzzy.

Her parents are the kind of people who never get their hands dirty. No, they are very clever – _were_ always very clever. Very careful to always have someone else carry out the more cumbersome aspects of their work. But that doesn't mean they haven't killed people. Or had them killed as was the case with Neal after he'd carried out his task.

It has been over a year and she hasn't heard anything so she still has no idea where they are. She must keep looking and when she finds them she'll... Truthfully, she has no idea, but finding them before they find her seems like the smart thing to do. In the meanwhile she can only do one thing. She can wait.

*

Your skin gets lonely when you travel the world alone, and then it doesn't feel like your skin anymore. And perhaps, in a way, a certain kind of essential solitude has always been her natural state, but after having had something, not having anything is so much more overpowering.

The music in the bar who-knows-where is loud, but after a few vodka shots she starts to feel the knot in her chest loosen a little. It is a relief to know that hard liqueurs still do what they are supposed to even though everything else in her life seems to be spiraling completely out of control.

She can't afford losing control. Someone else will pay if she does. She's not sure how she knows that, she just does.

"This seat taken?" a man with a little bit of gray in his hair asks. An American.

"I guess not," she says.

The man moves to sit on the barstool next to her.

"You want another one?" he points at the empty shot glasses in front of Emma. He has blue eyes and an expensive watch. Whatever.

"Sure."

The man gestures to the bartender and orders two shots.

And then another two shots.

She feels the world sway and bend a bit around her, but she doesn't care. It doesn't feel good, but it doesn't feel bad either. It's an improvement.

Another shot.

She feels pretty damn amazing.

Another one.

The music is really loud. But otherwise everything is just... so...

One more shot.

What the fuck is she doing? She pats off the hand that has somehow ended up on her knee, slurs an excuse and starts walking towards the green Exit sign.

When she is outside, she takes a deep breath. She feels tears fall down her cheeks but she doesn't care. What has her life become?

She has very little these days, but what she has is all too much. She wants to scream, but that would just attract unwanted attention so she punches the wall again and again and again until her knuckles are bleeding.

She doesn't even know who she is anymore. Who she is supposed to be. How is she supposed to deal with that with no one around to remind her of how she could be the best version of herself that's ever existed? The one brought on by a boy who is no longer eleven and the woman who always got concerned, even when she didn't need to.

Now she's just someone with bloody knuckles, what's no doubt going to be a killer hangover, and no idea what she's doing most of the time.

 

**January 1994**

 

Finding him wasn't easy. He has many names and a reputation to match each one of those.

The shop looks legit enough, but she knows that's no guarantee that all his operations are strictly legal these days. Used goods and antiques just seems so... mundanely boring after cocaine and guns. She's been following him for a while, watched him as he has gone on about his day without doing anything particularly shady.

The problem is, she loses sight of him for a while, and the next thing she knows is a voice saying, "Hi there," and even before she turns around, she knows what she's going to see.

A man emerges from the shadows of the alleyway and...

It's all good.

It's all good, it's all good, it's all good.

She's staring down the barrel of a gun, but it's not her first time.

There's a wonderful loneliness to being in that position. Nothing matters except for still breathing, and it's not quite your life passing you by in slow motion – it's just that everything slows down around you and there is a surprising amount of time to think of what has become of your life. Of families left behind, of cold nights spent in a car, of gang leaders with guns and thieves bleeding to death in front of your eyes. And also of the way the hand holding the gun this time is shaking just a little.

She knows the shaking is a good thing. "I come in peace," she says. "And I'm unarmed." Which is a lie, but oh well. He must know that. He probably hasn't trusted anyone in decades. Not one single person. Neither has she, really.

"How did you find me?"

"Finding people runs in the family."

"You want something." His lips curl up in something, something that could be either disgust or amusement. It's hard to tell with him.

"Only information." She wonders if she should just be blunt. Ah, what the hell. "On my parents."

"Why would I trust you?" the man holding the gun asks.

"Because I know you have enough reasons to hate them as much as I do."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Neal." Saying the name out loud takes some effort.

The knuckles of the hand holding the gun get a little whiter, but his expression doesn't change. He's good at this. "Doesn't ring a bell."

She decides the time for bullshitting is over. "Really? About this tall, dark hair, and, oh, right, _your son_."

It's almost a grimace. "I don't have a son anymore."

"I know." Her voice breaks a little. She will never forget it. The sound of blood gurgling. The labored breaths. She's never really forgiven Neal, but he was just a minor player in a game that was much bigger than him. He didn't deserve what he ultimately got.

Neal's father's hair is much grayer than she remembers it being. He didn't have a cane back then either. She wonders what happened to him.

He sighs and lowers the gun. He still looks wary, though. "What do you want, Emma?"

"I just want to know if you've heard anything."

"You'll have to be more specific. I hear a lot of things. That's the price of being in the business of dealing with people's needs." His smile carries no traces of warmth, but she knows he's always been a predator whose main concern has always been his own survival.

"Do you have anything on my parents? I don't even really care about anything else except for any possible information you might have on their whereabouts."

"Hmm," he says.

"Please," she says, and it pains her to beg, but by now she's not above it. Can't afford being above it.

He sighs again. "Last I heard, they were in New Mexico. Albuquerque. But it has been a while since I last heard anything. I much prefer my own company these days."

"Thank you," she says and she means it.

"No problem. Just leave me alone, will you, dearie?" He limps away, the gun in one hand, a cane in another. He doesn't look back.

Emma could shoot him so easily, but she doesn't.

A vague sense of uneasiness settles itself in her gut. This is the first time someone may have actually seen them. And maybe she's been wishing they'd have miraculously disappeared or died, but it's obvious that's not the case, and as long as her parents roam this earth, she's forced to do the same.

It's not a good reason to keep on staying alive, but it's something.

 

**April 1994**

 

A US marshall was gunned down in Augusta. His wounds were extensive and he died later in the hospital. A name hasn't been released due to some vague reason, but she can read between the lines.

Her hands don't shake when she calls Graham's home number from a payphone.

No, her hands only start to shake when he doesn't answer. She calls again. And again. And again.

There is no answer.

She calls another number. It's a number she knows by heart.

The voice that says, "Hello?" is not a boy's voice. It's the uncertain timber of a teenager. It's a sound that's both familiar and utterly foreign to her ears, and it makes her heart sing in a multitude of really painful ways. It's a voice she hasn't heard in almost three years and she has missed hearing it so, so, so much.

"Hello?" he says again and she has to bite her lip to keep from saying anything, from breaking down and letting it all out. After a few heartbeats, he suddenly hisses in a low voice, "Stop calling us. You can't keep calling."

The line goes dead.

She's staring at the phone and suddenly she's in full panic mode. She tries Graham's number again, but there's no answer.

Someone keeps calling her family. Harassing them perhaps. Graham might be...

Before she knows it she's grabbing her car keys and her jacket. She doesn't stop to think about what she's doing. She has no time for that and she knows she'd do the same anyway.

There's nothing to think about when her family might be in danger.

*

Another piece of news hits her on the road. She is a little too old to have been a real fan, but in her current mental state it suddenly feels like a message from the universe.

Kurt Cobain is dead. They found him with a shotgun. The radio station is playing Nirvana's live cover of _The man who sold the world_.

She floors the gas pedal of the Honda. The engine makes a wailing sound at 90 mph.

_I thought you died alone_

_a long, long time ago_.

There's a 13-hour car ride ahead of her, and she blinks and blinks and blinks.

 

**PART III**

 

It's almost surreal how familiar everything looks.

It's a foggy night, one of those nights that are common in May, but not necessarily in April. The fact that it's foggy and only April is something that's only slightly off, but still, or maybe therefore, something that makes chills run down her spine. It's bordering on being creepy.

But then again, she has no business fearing ghosts, because she _is_ the ghost in this scenario. As she rolls down the window, she inhales (long, deep), and that particular kind of salty-fresh ocean air fills her lungs, and she knows that despite the oddness of it all, she's home again.

Home, against what seemed like impossible odds at first when she was just eighteen and carrying the weight of an enormous secret and years of running and hiding, is in Storybrooke, Maine. She knows that with the some definitiveness as she knows that she shouldn't be here. She should be anywhere but here.

Maybe she should never have set foot in this town. She could have ended up anywhere. You never know when you enter the program. She could have ended up somewhere where there wouldn't have been someone who looked at her with tender eyes that said, "Maybe _we_ could," when she said she wasn't going to keep the baby, because there was no way she could have taken care of it the way it deserved to be taken care of. Then the _it_ became a _him_ and, then, _my son_ and _our son_ and none of the initial doubts ever mattered again. And somehow, somewhere along the way, she fell in love with the idea of _family_.

She drives down Main Street like she has done a million times before in another life. A left turn. A right turn. Two lefts.

She turns off the headlights as she makes the last right turn to Mifflin Street and suddenly she sees it. The house. The one that used to be the center of her whole universe. Still is, even though she's been orbiting it from afar.

Panic rises in her chest, and she reminds herself how to breathe. The house is engulfed in fog, almost invisible. She parks her car, stares, and wonders what she should do.

Her body reacts faster than her brain and she's already almost running towards the house before her brain catches up with her feet. The house is dark, but she expects there to be a light in the study. Regina should still be up.

She just needs to see that light. That's all.

Her feet keep her going and suddenly she runs into someone, a dark shadowy figure, and her first instinct is to throw a blind punch. Because there's a shadowy figure lurking in the back yard of the house where her family lives and that's unacceptable.

"OW!" the shadow yelps, and she recognizes that yelp.

"Graham?!"

"Emma?!"

She stares at him and he stares at her and he looks like he's seen a ghost. So does she, probably. It certainly feels like seeing a ghost. Hell, perhaps she _is_ seeing a ghost.

"You are not dead," she says even though she's not entirely sure if she can trust her senses.

"No, I don't think I am," he says. "Why would you think I'd be dead?"

"I heard about the shooting in Augusta. A US marshall died."

His eyes widen. "Well, obviously that wasn't me."

"You weren't answering the phone."

"Is that why you're here?"

She's still staring at him in disbelief. "It kinda is."

"I am alive."

"We've established that, yes." It's one of the strangest conversations she's perhaps ever had and she's had some really strange ones lately.

He's still staring at her, and she can't identify all the emotions fluttering in his eyes.

"So what are you doing here?" she asks.

"You're asking _me_ that?" His eyes are very wide now. "When I'm the one who should be asking you that very same question. I'm doing what you told me to do. Protecting your family."

"And that means lurking around this late?"

He looks guilty, and she's not sure why, but alarm bells go off in her head. "Regina needed me. I'm just on my way home," he says and there's definitely something he's not telling her.

"She... _needed_ you?"

He doesn't say anything. If possible, he looks even more guilty than before.

"Graham. What's going on? What were you doing at the house this late?"

"Like I said..."

"Wait, you two... You aren't... You... She wouldn't..." Any way she puts it in her head sounds so wrong on so many levels. So wrong.

"What? No, Emma, no! Of course not. It's not like that."

"It's not like what?" she asks because she's not even entirely sure what it was she was suggesting.

"I'm not sleeping with her."

"Whoa. That's... I didn't mean that." She kind of did, though. "But good to know."

There's an extremely awkward silence during which Graham shifts his weight from one foot to another. Even in the darkness it's clear that he's blushing. "... yeah." He scratches his head and sighs. "It's, err, it's complicated."

"For someone with a secret job you are an awful liar. Just spit it out."

"Emma, I... I don't want you to worry or anything, but it's just that... Henry was missing."

She's been readying herself for _something_ _,_ something equally _horrible,_ but what Graham says still takes her by surprise. "What?!"

"Don't worry. He's fine. Everything's fine."

"How's that _fine_?!" She really fails to see how any of this is fine.

"It wasn't the..." He apparently catches himself, probably realizes that he's said too much.

"It wasn't what?"

"It wasn't the first time," he says quietly.

"He's gone missing before?" Something horrible, horrible is taking residence somewhere in the empty space in her lungs. Something cold and heavy and awful.

"It's... Well, you know how teenagers can be. Puberty."

Oh, she knows. "Yeah, but that doesn't sound like Henry."

That awkward shifting again. Right. As if she knows what does and doesn't sound like Henry these days.

"He's not fine, is he?" she asks even though she doesn't want to hear the answer.

He stares at his shoes for a few moments, then he looks her in the eye. "Look, Emma, I'm not sure if it's a good idea for you to be here."

Well, _duh_ , of course it isn't. "I drove for thirteen hours."

"You must be tired. Come with me. You can spend the night. We can talk in the morning."

And she knows. She knows she can't just march in and pretend like she never left. She's most certainly not welcome back. And she does need the sleep, but the thought of staying at Graham's place... "With you...? I'm pretty sure I'll just grab a room at Granny's."

That expression. He's hiding something again.

"What?"

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea either," he says.

"Why?"

*

It soon becomes clear why it's not a good idea.

It's quick, but painful. There's the motion of a hand, thin, translucent skin and solid veins, and, then, there's just a hand-shaped pain spreading over half her face. "Ow!"

Granny's eyes are full of fire and fury. "That's for leaving your family."

"Ow."

"Sorry, kiddo. Too harsh?"

Half her face is throbbing, but it's not like she doesn't deserve it. "No."

"Good."

"So I err... I need a room."

"Yeah?"

"So you have any vacancies?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"On your intentions."

"Really?"

"Really."

Oh, come on, this is getting ridiculous. "You're a small business owner. Can you really afford being picky about your customers?"

"Yes. As a business owner, I'm allowed to choose my clientele."

Fine. Whatever. She'll play this game. "What would my intentions have to be for you to grant me the privilege of staying here?"

Granny glances at her over her glasses. There's not even the tiniest trace of humor in her voice. "Leaving first thing in the morning."

Really? "Sure."

"Let me be completely clear. I mean, leaving the town first thing in the morning."

And that is her intention, she swears to all supernatural beings that might or might not exist, that's fully and utterly her intention. And yet she hears herself say, "I guess I'll crash at Graham's place then."

"Wrong choice," Granny says.

She shrugs. There's no point arguing when Granny is probably right.

She's almost at the door when she hears Granny's voice, "They have a good life going. You'll just confuse your son further if you'll end up leaving again anyway."

 _Confuse him further_. So he's confused. And if Granny knows that, it means everyone in town knows.

She knows she's probably making a stupid, reckless decision. But too many strange things are going on in this town right now and she can't help but feel like this is where she needs to be. Just in case. And she's already here. The thought of not seeing her son, not seeing Regina, not even once while she's so close to them already, even if she'd only be able to see them from afar, is just...

Inconceivable.

*

Graham's house is a mess, the couch is awfully uncomfortable (and it's not as if she could sleep more than three hours anyway), and he's apparently the type to make breakfast wearing only his boxer shorts and hum while doing so.

She should have known.

"Do you mind?" she asks.

"Oh. Sorry," he says and goes quiet, keeps scrambling the eggs and when he finally tosses it all onto two plates, he has also managed to almost burn the bacon. The two food items are joined by lukewarm baked beans.

She moves things around with her fork, takes a few polite bites and, weirdly enough, discovers she's hungry as hell.

When was the last time she had an actual meal anyway? She knows her eating habits have experienced a drastic downfall since her days of leading a perfectly happy family life with the queen of lasagna.

She misses that lasagna. Fresh from the oven every other Sunday. Leftovers for lunch on Monday.

"Emma?"

"Huh?"

"There's more," Graham points at the skillets on the stove.

"Thanks," she says. She tries to smile, but this time the smile just doesn't come.

*

She doesn't mean to stalk them, but what else is there she could possibly do?

And yet, even sitting in her car that's parked a small distance away from the house feels more like happiness than anything she's felt in almost three years. At least this way she's closer to them.

At 7.30 the front door opens and...

The tears come, she can't help it, and she barely sees them through the mist, barely makes up two shapes, one dressed in black and one impossibly tall and lanky.

She gets to see them and knows for a fact that they are living and breathing. After three years and so much uncertainty and wondering it's nothing short of a miracle.

The blurry people get into Regina's car. Henry will soon be old enough to drive, she suddenly realizes, doesn't even know why that random thought occurs to her, but it does, and the tears just won't stop coming.

She wonders if he'll learn to drive stick. Of course he will. Regina will teach him for sure. Maybe she'll even give him her car eventually.

If he ever got the Super Nintendo, he is probably not even into that anymore. She clutches the steering wheel. Not running after them is the hardest thing she has done since she left them.

*

"Isn't this against like a million rules or something?" she asks Graham in the evening.

"What do you mean?" he asks and looks up from the newspaper he's been reading. Storybrooke Daily Mirror. It must be a new publication.

" _This._ Me staying with you."

"I don't know." He runs his hand through his hair. "You are not in the program anymore. But probably, yes. Even though you'll have to admit it's not the first time I've broken the rules for you."

"I know." She tries to smile at him, really tries, because he deserves a friendly gesture after everything he has already done. He deserves more than that, but maybe she'll be able to thank him properly some time in the future. When there is less going on. "I'm sorry I keep asking you to do that."

"No, it's not a problem. I know why you do it."

"You do?"

"Suffice to say, I suppose there are people for whom I'd be willing to do what you are doing for your family." His smile is sad, veiled. She feels a pang of sympathy amidst all the fear and restlessness.

"Hey, I... I noticed there's a box that you haven't opened there." She points at the object she's been eyeing throughout their dinner.

"It's a computer," he says and swallows a piece of slightly dry chicken.

"Yeah, I can see that."

"I don't need one," Graham says. "I've survived without."

"Why do you have it then?"

"Regina thought I needed one. She got it for me as a thank you of sorts."

It's not exactly jealousy... Except maybe it is. "She still thinks you're a PI?"

"Yes." Graham smiles. "It's an Apple Macintosh. Apparently those are supposed to be good."

Funny. She never understood what it was with Regina and apples. "May I?" she asks and points at the box.

Graham shrugs. "Sure. It's all yours."

*

She's still setting up the computer when there's a pounding sound at the door, and Graham goes to check it out, and when he yells, "Emma, there's someone here to see you," she knows it can't be good news. She can only think of two people she wants to see even though she has no idea how she should act if she did.

Turns out, it's one of those people, and her heart almost stops. She knows word travels fast in Storybrooke so she's not surprised he knows she's in town, it's just that...

"Ma?"

"Henry?"

Almost three years, most definitely too many days, Emma thinks.

He stumbles and falls, his hands grabbing the doorframe, and he's too tall and too lanky and too _teenager_ and he smiles a smile that's older, but not much wiser.

"Henry," Emma says again.

"Surprise," he says and he's fourteen and there's an ugly cut above his left eye.

"Henry," Emma says again and again, because what else can she say?

"Happy birthday," he says and he smiles a ruthless smile. "Oh, and merry Christmas. You missed a few."

It's been almost three years, too many days since she last saw him. "Henry," she says for the fourth time, because this can't be happening.

He smells of booze and night air. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Why did you come back?" he asks.

He smells of booze. It takes a while for her to process that, but when she does... "Have you been drinking?"

"So what if I have?"

"You're fourteen."

"Like you care."

"Henry..."

"Fuck you."

" _Henry."_

"No, don't use the mom voice. You have no right to use your mom voice." And suddenly he's crumbling, falling, collapsing onto the floor in a big mess of flailing limbs and awkward movements.

*

He comes to slowly and, after forcing him to drink two glasses of water and cleaning the cut (which, luckily, is much smaller than it initially seemed) above his eyebrow, she shoves a mug full of bitter, black coffee into his hands, and he takes a sip and cringes at the taste.

"Drink up," she says. "If you think you can handle booze, you can handle a little caffeine."

He doesn't say anything. He looks almost sheepish.

"Kurt Cobain killed himself," is the first thing Henry says after a long silence.

"Yeah. I heard." Alright. Small talk it is. It's ridiculous. She should be yelling at him, but it's _Henry_ and it's been so long.

"That's pretty messed up."

"I didn't know you were a fan."

"I'm not." He shrugs. "I mean, I wasn't."

"How are you?" she asks. The quietness of her own voice surprises her.

He shrugs.

"School going alright?"

He shrugs again, but his skeptical expression is so Regina, she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

There's another long silence. He keeps staring at his hands and he looks slightly nauseated. When he speaks, it startles her, "She loved you more than she loves me. Mom, I mean."

That catches her completely off-guard. "Wh- What do you mean?"

"She's just... I dunno. She's changed. People are actually kind of afraid of her now."

"What do you mean 'afraid'?"

"I dunno..."

"Oh, Henry..."

"Why did you leave?" Clearly they are done with small talk.

"I had to, Henry. I'm so sorry." It's a stupid, empty platitude. She wishes she could offer so much more.

"You had to? What does that even mean?"

"It's complicated." Another platitude. One that's even worse than the previous one.

"Was it because of mom?"

"What?"

"I mean, I know you guys fought sometimes but I guess I never thought it was that bad." His voice is small.

"Oh, no, no no no, Henry. I didn't leave because of that. No."

"Was it... " He swallows and, quite impossibly, his voice gets even smaller. "Did I do something?"

And there it is. The thing that finally breaks her heart into a billion pieces. "No, Henry. No. You didn't do anything."

She hugs him. He squirms at first, but she keeps hugging him tight and eventually he sighs. She feels something wet on her shoulder, right where his face is now that he's gotten so tall.

*

She takes him home once he can stand upright and once his eyes look more or less focused. She's dreading what's to come all the way to Mifflin Street.

"She knows you're back," Henry says as if reading her thoughts.

Her heart is thumping like crazy. "She does?" And if she does, how come she's not stormed into Graham's house yet and demanded explanations?

"She knows everything that happens in this town."

"Yeah, I heard she's the Mayor."

He grunts.

"What? Something wrong?"

"Nah," he says. "It's just... She works a lot. But it's okay. I get it. She's the Mayor."

*

The few seconds between the knock and the moment the door opens are some of the longest seconds of Emma's life. It's almost like staring down the barrel of a gun.

And then Regina is there. She's just there.

And the thing is, sometimes you forget someone's beauty a little bit. Sometimes you think you may have imagined it. But Regina is all silky smooth hair and perfect skin and brown eyes, exactly as she remembers and more. Except not really. It's the eyes that are different now. They don't sparkle like they used to. The eyes widen momentarily, but Regina's face is completely expressionless when she says, "Emma."

And another thing is, she has so much to say. So many explanations to offer. So many secrets to reveal, finally, if only Regina is willing to hear them. And yet...

"Hey," she says. There is literally nothing else she can think of. Almost three years and that's all that comes out. _Hey._

That's when Regina notices Henry who's, as absurd as it seems, half-hiding behind Emma's back. "You. Go to your room. Now."

"Whatever," he says. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder before he runs up the stairs, only stumbling a little on his own feet. He looks uncertain, as if he's wondering if this is another goodbye he's unwittingly saying.

"He'd been drinking," Emma says. She keeps saying dumb things. Wrong things. Three years and she still hasn't learned anything.

"No, that can't be the case." Regina sounds almost amused but in a way that screams _danger_.

"Come on, you could smell it, too."

"My son doesn't drink."

 _My son on the other hand..._ "Well, there's a first for everything."

"He's fourteen."

"Exactly."

She almost gets lost in the way the porch light illuminates Regina's face, but the spell is broken when Regina opens her mouth and spits out an angry, "You did this."

"I did this?"

"Yes."

"Regina..."

But it's in vain. Regina shakes her head, pulls the door closed, and Emma is left standing on the porch feeling like the most horrible person in the world.

"I missed you," she says to no one in particular.

Good god, she's missed her. She's missed her and she's missed Henry and she's missed having a family, and now everything is broken and wrong and twisted and it's all her fault.

 

**PART IV**

 

The call comes late at night.

"Again, Madam Mayor?" Graham glances at Emma, lowers his voice. "I'll see what I can do. I think we should check all the usual places."

*

The castle on the beach is silhouetted against the darkening night sky. A teenager is sitting on it, too big for the wavering wooden frame.

Next to him a can of Pepsi and in his hand a cigarette.

No. He's fourteen. He shouldn't be drinking and he shouldn't be smoking. Neither of those things are something he should be doing, damn it.

She could yell. Hell, she should yell. She should yell and she should shout and he should listen and he should be eleven again and completely innocent and she should never have left him.

She should have never left him. Who is she to shout? When she was fourteen she was the same. She no doubt had that look, too. The one that says he's been left behind. His trust has been betrayed.

She makes sure that he hears her approaching. He's staring out to the ocean, doesn't even glance at her as she slides to sit next to him (and the whole damn castle will probably collapse but she doesn't care).

They sit side by side, in complete silence.

After a while he puts out the cigarette, throws it onto the sand, kicks it with his sneaker-clad foot.

He doesn't say anything.

"I can drive you home," she says after a while.

He nods, but he's still not speaking.

*

In the car, he fumbles with the stereo. Finally he stumbles upon a station that's playing something in Spanish. He glances at her and there's the tiniest of grins playing on his lips.

It's almost instinctive how she grins at him, too.

This is what they used to do.

"Magia," he says.

"That's not how you pronounce it."

"I know."

They are quiet again. It's a long while this time.

"Mom hates me," he says after some more moments.

"She doesn't," she says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do," she says. She knows it with absolute certainty. Regina might hate everything and everyone else around her, but never Henry. Never.

When she stops the car in front of the house, Henry looks at her pleadingly. "Please, come with me."

"No. I can't."

"Why?" It's said in such a kid tone.

"I can't."

He sighs. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"You go inside and you deal with the consequences. And you say you're sorry."

*

Graham leaves for work and Emma is sitting by his kitchen table.

There's a knock on the door and, a little later, the doorbell rings. Whoever is ringing it keeps doing that and she has no intention of opening the door, but it's starting to get on her nerves.

Her whole body freezes when she glances out of the window and sees who's behind the door.

Regina.

She's in one of her business suits, the ones that make her look intimidating as hell, but also, Jesus fucking Christ, hot as hell.

"Hey," she says when she opens the door. "What are you doing here?"

"Why are you still in town? It's been a month."

It _has_ been a month. A month of stalking the white house and a month of Graham's dried out chicken dishes. Granny is still refusing to serve her anything but food that's a little burned which _must_ be on purpose.

"I'm... I want to be back in Henry's life." While it's not even close to the whole truth of the matter, it's not at all untrue. She does want to be back in Henry's life – she wants that more than anything she's ever wanted.

Regina shakes her head. "He's my son."

"He's my son, too."

"Biologically, hmm, _maybe,_ but you have no legal rights to him."

That irritates her. It's one thing to point out that she's been a lousy parent, but to outright deny it? "Excuse me? And what do you mean _maybe_? I vividly recall giving birth to him. I think that makes my maternity pretty damn unquestionable."

"I obtained sole custody a year after you'd left."

"You... what?" For some reason she hadn't even thought about that. Of course. It only makes sense, but the fact that it makes sense so perfectly... Well, that sucks more than anything has pretty much ever sucked.

"You heard me."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's all you have to say? Oh?"

"No, I..."

"I don't understand how I ever thought I was in love with you."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"No," Regina's tone is very firm. That combined with the power suit, and suddenly she gets how people might be afraid of her. "You are not sorry. You come back after almost three years, act like nothing's happened in the meantime, and you don't even have a decent explanation for leaving in the first place."

"I... I _am_ sorry."

"Well, unless there's something you're not telling me, I have no reason to believe you when you say you're sorry. So better make your alien abduction story or whatever other fables you are intent on weaving a believable one. Otherwise your words mean absolutely nothing."

"There is something."

"Oh, pray tell."

"I can't."

"That's what I thought." A mirthless smile. "You should leave town. _Now_."

"I'm sorry. But I won't."

"I can make you leave."

And despite everything, despite secrets and all these years between them, despite having drug lords for parents and despite having a son who's suddenly a complete stranger – despite all that there's something in the challenge in that voice that Emma has never been able to resist. Never. "You can try," she says and she's smiling.

*

She knows where Regina sometimes goes on Friday nights. Where she went. She wonders if that's changed, too, but something moves her feet towards the door and out of it before she can really stop herself.

It's a simple piano bar. Dark, smoky, Johnny Walker Red Label and no jukebox.

She enters the establishment and regrets the idea already. There's no way this is going to end well. No way. But she has to try. There has to be a way of talking things out and reaching some kind of an agreement, because she's not about to leave town again. That's simply not an option right now.

She instantly spots Regina and she's not sure if she's surprised. Some things don't change, it seems. It's oddly comforting and pretty much the only part of her Storybrooke experience so far that's not completely fucked up in that everything-is-almost-like-it-used-to-be-just-infinitely-more-fucked-up way that's bordering on being creepy.

She approaches Regina carefully and once she reaches the corner booth that used to be her favorite even in the old days, she clears her throat.

Regina's eyes darken when she looks up from the glass she's holding while absent-mindedly twirling the amber liquid in it. "What are you doing here?"

"Just... Enjoying the atmosphere, I guess." She never particularly cared for this place. She knows Regina knows that.

"You know what I meant."

She knows and she doesn't want to make light of the gravity of any aspect of the situation. Not now when Regina hasn't yet outright dismissed her. Things always were very serious with them. None of it was light. It all weighed a lot. More than life. More than anything. So she says the thing she means more than she's ever meant anything even though it feels like she's getting repetitive, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Still no explanation?"

"I..."

"Save it."

"Regina, please..." And just like that, just for a second, she sees something resembling vulnerability in Regina's expression. Instinctively, she lowers her voice when she asks the one question that's been on her mind the most, "What's going on with Henry?"

Maybe Regina is slightly intoxicated or maybe she's just tired, but she doesn't yell at her or tell her to leave. Instead, she points at the seat opposite her.

She sits down, carefully, fully aware of how much the gesture means.

Regina drains her glass, gestures at the bartender for another, and only after she's halfway done with the second drink as well does she say, "Henry has been getting better."

"What do you mean?"

"After you came back. He's been getting better."

She doesn't want to know how one instance of underage drinking and one disappearance count as 'better'. She just knows Regina seems very reluctant to admit what she just admitted so it must be true. "He has?"

"He's in therapy. It's been... It hasn't been easy."

"Oh." She knows it must be absolutely _killing_ Regina to say these things out loud, Especially to her, so she hangs onto each word like one hangs onto a lifeline. "Because I left?"

Regina's laugh is soft, tickling, dark. "Honestly? I'm not sure. When I became mayor, I suppose I used work as a way of forgetting all about what happened. I know I should have paid more attention to how he was feeling, but he always seemed so..."

"Strong? More mature than he was? Yeah, I know. He was a kid, but he... wasn't."

Regina stares at her. "Yes." She looks down at her hands that are holding the now-empty glass. "I suppose I was foolish enough to think I could be enough on my own."

It's the second time since she came back that her heart shatters into a million sharp pieces. "Hey. Hey, hey, hey..." Carefully, she takes one of Regina's hands in hers and squeezes it. "It's not your fault. I know you love him. That's the most important thing."

Now Regina is looking directly at her and her eyes are endless pits of soft, velvety darkness, something both enticing and intimidating as hell. "Sometimes just loving someone isn't enough," she whispers.

The shards that used to constitute her heart scrape her intestines, and when the song that's been playing in the background changes into something slower and more intense, there's suddenly too much feeling to be contained while sitting still and looking so directly at Regina and seeing nothing but having been betrayed and made feel worthless where so far there's been a mask of indifference, and she asks, without thinking, "Wanna dance?"

"What?" Regina looks way more shocked by the suggestion than seems reasonable.

"Dance? Do you want to?"

"No, thank you. I'd..." Regina fumbles with her purse, suddenly seemingly anxious. "I'd better get going."

"Oh?" She's disappointed, but also weirdly relieved. It's just that your skin gets lonely when you travel the world alone and then it doesn't feel like your skin anymore. She's not sure she could have handled being that close to another human being again. Especially the one human being she wants to be close to the most desperately. "Want me to drive you home?"

"No, I... I think I'll walk."

"Okay."

Regina stands up, hovers uncertainly for a few seconds. "Okay," she says.

Then she's gone.

It's all really rather surreal but it feels like progress.

*

The following day, she goes for a jog around the neighborhood and when she gets back, Henry is sitting on Graham's porch.

"Hey," he says. He's smiling.

"Hey yourself," she says. "What's up?"

"Nothing." He shrugs.

Ah. Could it be that he just wants to... hang out? "Wanna help me set up an Internet connection? Graham bought a modem."

"Okay," he says and grins.

It's not quite as easy as it sounded like in the user guide but after a while they are looking at Mosaic slowly loading a webpage. "We did it," she says.

"Yup," he says.

This whole messing with technology thing actually reminds her of something she's forgotten to ask. "Hey, did you ever get the Super Nintendo that you wanted?"

"What?" He's confused. "Oh, that? I only wanted that for, like, a week. Mom got me a Game Boy instead."

"Oh."

He looks at her weirdly. "How do you even remember something like that?"

She shrugs. "It felt important at the time." She's getting good at understatements.

"Right," he says. Then he grins again and, yep, he's still capable of looking like a puppy dog. "Hey, so I hear Sony's been developing this new console..."

She shakes her head. "Don't even try."

"What? I wasn't trying anything."

"Like hell you weren't."

 

**PART V**

 

Normalcy. That's ultimately the scariest thing she's experienced in a long time.

It starts out slowly, but one day she realizes it's been weeks since anything particularly ominous or unpleasant happened.

Granny is smiling at her again and granting her her bear claws and hot chocolate without any complaints.

Henry is smiling more and while he does get moody occasionally, there haven't been any further incidents unless one counts skipping the occasional gym class. And when that happens, Regina calls her on Graham's phone and blames her presence for that, but she's not sure if Regina actually means that or if she's just doing that out of habit or if, perhaps, maybe, she just wants to share these things with someone who understands.

So maybe they'll never be what they once were to one another, but maybe they'll learn to be _something_ again.

*

But of course the price of getting used to a degree of normalcy is the fact that, sooner or later, it ends, and when it does, it ends with a bang.

In this case, literally.

For her, it's on an ordinary Thursday, at around three p.m. when Graham's phone rings, and she picks up the receiver because sometimes Regina calls her these days, seemingly to bother her, but, ultimately, in order to share some stupid, meaningless anecdote and not just about something Henry did or said but also to rant about the zoning committee and their stupidity, and she hangs onto each preciously stupid word, because she can't believe it's true that after everything, as has become apparent, Regina still wants to rant to _her_.

Except this time it's not Regina who's calling. When she realizes who it is, she hangs up right away.

*

The phone rings again and again and again, day after day, and finally she unplugs the phone. She also makes sure she's watching the house at 108 Mifflin Street more vigorously than ever that night.

She's been found. She should run, but she can't leave them again. This time leaving them on their own might be more dangerous than the alternative.

And that's when she knows she's made a horrible, horrible mistake.

*

Soon, she's living in her car that's perpetually parked across the street from the house. She can't afford sleeping or losing her focus, not even for a few seconds.

Finally, on the second day of keeping watch non-stop, Graham brings her a letter that had been left in his mailbox and there's no stamp and no postmark so she knows someone they've sent has been by the house, and it's the most terrifying thought she's ever had.

She tears the envelope open, and she sees the words on the paper, but they make no sense.

Her father wants to meet her. He's left her mother and, as he calls it, "the family business", and he's a contributing member of the society now. He works on a farm nearby and he just _happened_ to find out where she's been staying thanks to some old contacts. (But he meant no evil by digging her up. Absolutely no evil.)

 _I come in piece_ , he writes and so his spelling isn't the best, which in itself is a little adorable, but there's also the fact that he's her father and the press always said he was more of a background player while her mother ran the show and...

The thing is, if her father knows where she's staying, there have been a million opportunities for him to confront her. He probably could have killed her in her sleep, but he hasn't.

Damn it. She knows if this is a trap...But she also knows she's done a horrible thing by inviting something so dangerous anywhere close to her family, and if there's someone who should pay the price, it's her. So whatever. He'll kill her or he won't. There are really not that many ways all this can end. She knows Graham will do his best to keep Henry and Regina safe if something happens to her, just like he did for almost three years. (And she still hasn't thanked him properly. She's a horrible human being.)

There's a phone number on the piece of paper. And she's always been too curious and too desperate to have a family, so she makes what could potentially be an incredibly stupid decision.

*

"Are you armed?" Emma calls out to the woods.

The answer comes instantly. "No."

"Well, I am." She's not, but there's no way she'd admit that. The truth is, she's not sure where the gun is. She remembers leaving it in the glove department of her car, but it wasn't there when she last checked so she determines she must have left it at Graham's. She's been sleeping very little lately so her memory is not the best.

"Is it safe to approach you?" her father's voice asks.

Dang, he's good at camouflage, because she still can't see him. "Yes, but don't try anything funny."

"I won't, I swear."

And suddenly, standing there, between two birch trees, is her father.

"Emma," he says. "It's good to see you."

Seeing him stirs up some long-buried emotion in her, the constant yearning she remembers from her childhood, the questions, all that endless hoping and wishing and dreaming. But she can't let that show. Not now when things are this critical. "Yeah, last time was just wonderful."

"I'm very, very sorry about that. If there was anything I could do..."

"There isn't." And just like that, she realizes this was an incredibly stupid idea.

"Right."

"Why are you really here?" she asks because if there's some ulterior motive, then, well, better get it out there in the open right now.

Apparently he realizes that, too, because he looks slightly guilty, even ashamed when he says. "You're not going to like what I'm going to say, but please, just hear me out."

No. No, no, no. "No."

"Your mother wants to talk to you."

Of course. " _No._ "

"Please. She has changed. We both have."

"People don't change, David."

"Yes, they do. Human beings are endlessly capable of change. Believe me."

The thing is... She wants to believe that. She wants to believe that more than almost anything, because she's been trying to do just that. But there's something about the way David keeps glancing around nervously that makes her panic. "No."

"Emma... She... _We_ just want to get to know our daughter. Can you please give us a second chance?"

"She's here, isn't she?"

David doesn't say anything. There's a small smile playing on his lips, sheepish, way too ignorantly innocent.

"She's here." Emma feels her eyes widen in horror. "You not just lied to me about leaving her, but you actually brought her here with you."

"Emma, let me explain... We just wanted to see our daughter. Your mother suggested a harmless lie so you'd be more willing to meet me, and, well, she just wants to apologize to you." And okay, fine, maybe David isn't the evil one of them, but he doesn't seem to realize what exactly it is he has done.

"No, she doesn't."

"We are not bad people. And no matter what you think, she didn't kill Neal. Someone else confessed to his murder."

And doesn't she know that? Because that's the thing about her parents and, probably, the reason why they are here in Maine instead of a maximum security prison somewhere – they are very good at covering their tracks. That's the sort of expertise that comes with the routine of operating an international drug ring. "Someone she paid to kill him, yeah, I know. Dammit, David, she can't be here."

"Mary Margaret!" David calls out to the woods. He's still smiling like someone who just doesn't get it, and she wishes so desperately she had the gun with her right now. She's not sure if she'd shoot right away, but at least she'd have the option.

She likes having options.

David keeps calling her mother's name, but there is no answer.

"Mary Margaret?" David's voice takes on a more questioning tone.

There is no answer. Oh fuck. Of course there is no answer.

"Fuck you. Fuck you," Emma says, and she's already running and hoping she's not too late.

She's the biggest idiot of them all.

*

Her mother is standing by Regina's car and she's holding a rifle. A goddamn rifle. She always had a thing for dramatics. That's what the press said.

Regina is also standing by her car, looking so very much not like someone who's being held at gunpoint. She looks way more irritated than afraid.

"Hello, dear. You failed to mention how horrible your mother is at introductions," Regina says and Emma wants to call her an idiot for being so utterly insufferably stubbornly brave that her heart quivers.

"Emma," her mother says and smiles. "How nice to see you again."

The gun is not in her car. That's the only thing on her mind.

"You found me."

Her mother's smile is very sweet. She looks deeply amused. "Oh, didn't you know? Family always finds one another."

 _Family_. The way her mother says the word makes her feel nauseated. "Don't talk to me about family."

"Fine. I won't. It's not like you seem to grasp the concept anyway."

"Okay? Well, whose fault is that then? I take it you're here to apologize." She's anything but calm, but as long as they are talking, that means no one is shooting anyone.

"You'd think so, right?" Emma's mother shakes her head. "And I did consider that option for a while, but no, I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Mom." The word tastes of bile. "Think about what you're doing."

"Don't mom me, Emma. You never saw me that way."

"Please, don't. Don't do this."

"You betrayed us." And there it is. The ice-cold danger in her mother's voice.

She glances at Regina, swallows, tries to say things that she hasn't been able to say, and Regina is looking at her and shaking her head a little, as if saying, _"It's okay,"_ while it's not... "Yeah," she says. "I did. But please, don't take it out on my family."

Regina is still looking straight at her, completely ignoring the person holding the rifle. She tries to smile a reassuring smile. A final apology for fucking up so utterly.

Her mother is staring at her, too, and now the rifle is pointed directly at her. "This is family to you?"

"Yes."

 _"This?"_ Her mother points at Regina, at the house.

"Yeah."

"No, it's not. This is... I don't know what this is, but this is not a family. We are your family. Your father and I. But I suppose that has never meant anything to you."

She's staring down the barrel of a gun again, and there's something wild and uncontrollable in her mother's eyes and she knows, she knows with utmost certainty, that she's going to pull the trigger. She needs to say something, but what's there to say when everything has come a full circle and this is what she wanted to avoid at all costs?

And then something happens.

There is a shot, but the shooter is not her mother and it's neither her nor Regina who falls.

The one who falls is her mother and the one who shoots...

_No. No, no, no, no._

Henry is standing on the porch. He's shaking and there are tears in his eyes.

He's holding her gun. How in the hell does he have it? She realizes that, at some point, he must have broken into her car, which he really shouldn't have done, even though, with his genetics, it should hardly be surprising in any way, and why is she thinking about that when Henry is just standing there and her mother is on the ground and there's blood and... She's starting to get dizzy.

"Henry?" she asks. "What have you done?"

Henry's eyes are glazed over. He's shaking and shivering and almost sobbing when he says, "She was going to kill my mom. She was going to kill both of you."

And then Regina is by his side (of course she is – she was usually the one who reacted faster when he needed one of his parents), and he's crying, and she's crying, and there is blood everywhere, and somewhere, somewhere in the periphery of her vision, she sees a shadowy figure, blurry and kind of like the prince in her childhood imaginations, run towards them.

"Mary Margaret?!" When her father gets closer, his face twists into an ugly expression of utter horror, and he lets out a high-pitched sound that's a mix between a wail and a shriek.

*

That's her mother and she's dead.

She's not the woman she was waiting for all those years. The picture perfect maternal figure, someone who loved her and when she left her, she left her because of that love. Someone who wanted to give her her best chance. This woman is definitely not that woman. That woman was someone she dreamed up somewhere between homes and families that were never hers. That was the mother she thought of every time yet another family sat her down and she saw that certain expression on their faces. The one that meant her things were probably packed and ready to go already. The one that they said meant, "We are sorry, but this is something we just have to do," but, as she had learned, actually meant, "You are not good enough and we never loved you."

This woman is not that woman. No, this is the one the press kept calling Snow White. "That's not her real name. Why don't they use her real name?" she used to ask her third foster father – the one who was kinder than the other two she'd had.

He sighed and put his beer down on the table, placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. "It's complicated. These are adult things. You'll understand some day."

She was a fucking stupid child.

"Fuck you," she whispers. "Fuck you very much." She trails her fingertips lightly over her mother's hand. It's a cold, cold hand, grayish skin and bloodless veins. She hates the way she feels her bottom lip start to tremble and soon she will crumble, she knows she will, and she hates that, too.

Because that woman is still her mother and she's dead and she never got to know her well enough to understand why.

"Why, mom?" she whispers. "Why would you do this to me?"

Her mother doesn't answer. Of course she doesn't. She's dead.

She's yanked out of her daydreaming by a hand that lands on her shoulder.

She knows the hand, recognizes its weight.

"I..." she says, because she needs to say something even though she has no idea what would possibly make sense in a world where she's failed her mission so utterly. Her family has been hurt. Henry will pay the price. God knows what will happen to him.

"Shhh."

Slowly, very slowly, she turns away from her dead mother, turns and sees dark eyes full of concern, even after everything. She doesn't deserve one bit of that concern.

"I guess I owe you an explanation."

"Yes, I'd say you do." But there's no accusation in Regina's voice, only confusion.

"Could that explanation maybe wait some more?"

"Sure. I'm sure it's a good one."

"I don't know about good..."

"Well, anything is better than what you've offered me so far."

" _Cuando el mundo pierda toda magia._.." she whispers. It's random, but it's what she's been thinking. The world. Losses. Magic. Regina. Family. How much she's fucked up.

These are horrible circumstances, but something flickering and fleeting and warm appears in Regina's eyes. "That's not how you pronounce 'magia'."

"I know." She manages a small grin. "It's pronounced _magia_ ," she says and the g is soft like the hand that's still on her shoulder.

"You've been practicing," Regina says.

"Yeah," she says. It's ridiculous that this is what they are discussing right now and not the fact that their son just killed someone right in front of them.

Regina sighs. "They need a statement from both of us."

"Okay."

"Come with me."

"Okay."

She's pretty sure she couldn't move her feet if there wasn't the steady pressure of a hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her along.

*

They are holding Henry for questioning and it is taking all night and they have no idea what's going to happen next and they are sitting in the waiting area at the sheriff's station.

After an hour of tired, numb silence, Regina says, "I don't know who you are."

She rubs her face, tries to make sense of everything. "Yes, you do. No one knows that better than you."

"I thought I did. But then you left."

"I did." She doesn't offer explanations. This is still not the time for a proper one. She would end up with half-assed excuses and haphazard half-truths. They are so far beyond anything that could be considered circumstances where those would be enough.

"It didn't make sense. I didn't think you'd do that. Ever."

And perhaps, somewhere along the way, she had learned to read Regina's concerned expressions and realized what was veiled in those other than simply love. There was always an ounce of Daniel dying, an ounce of an abusive, power-hungry mother, and an ounce of a shadow of a father who wasn't brave enough to protect the daughter he loved but instead retreated into his own private worlds contained in his head. Leaving, abandoning, ignoring – that's what they've both had people do to them. That's why they were never supposed to leave each other. "You knew that, but you were still always worried, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you'll ever be able to forgive me?"

"No, Emma, I... I can understand your reasoning and I can even feel a certain level of gratitude for your intentions, but no, I don't think I'll be able to forgive you. Not for leaving, no." Regina's smile is sad.

"Good."

"How is that good?"

She chuckles. "I don't want you to forgive me."

"You don't?"

"No, I haven't forgiven myself."

"Oh. Well. I suppose that's... good." Regina, miraculously, everything considered, smiles again.

"None of it was a lie, though. What we had, I mean."

"I didn't ask if any of it was."

"No, but you did wonder, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I made you do that." She doesn't dare move. Doesn't dare do a thing.

"I suppose that's an apology I'm willing to accept."

"Good."

It's all good.

It's all good, it's all good, it's all good.

"Just one thing... The year before you came to Storybrooke? Am I right in assuming you weren't actually backpacking through Europe?"

She nods.

"I knew it."

"What?"

"You once said you had seen the Brandenburg Gate in Paris."

She chuckles. Yeah, whatever, she'd panicked, but she'd always assumed Regina never noticed anything. "I take it's not in Paris then?"

"No, it's not."

"I was on the run from my parents with... someone." Or that's what she thought. Turned out he was actually leading her to them.

"Henry's father?"

"Yeah."

"I see. You do realize also I never bought the story about Henry's father and the pumpkin pie?"

Huh? "If you knew I was lying... Why didn't you say anything?"

A ghost of a smile lingers on Regina's lips. "I suppose I thought we were both entitled to certain secrets."

For a second she wonders what on earth Regina could be hiding from her, but perhaps that's something that she'll have to ponder further at another time. Whatever it is, it can't possibly be worse than what they've been through already.

Except fuck it. She's always been too curious. "Wait. What exactly were you hiding from me?"

Regina's half-smile is almost teasing, almost evil. "Does it matter?"

She looks at Regina, narrows her eyes. "You're not a serial killer or anything, are you?"

"Wouldn't you want to know?"

*

They caught her father. She lets out a sigh of relief. She doesn't know what's going to happen to him now, but for now, he's under arrest.

Their son is sleeping in his room. She remembers the way he looked at the station with his big, clumsy feet and his blood-stained sweatshirt that's now considered evidence, and now he's asleep in his room – a teenager with his upcoming further hearings and the possibility of a trial.

And Regina and her – they are both people who need space and people who don't really trust. Not after everything they have been through. It's a miracle that she's allowed to stay in the house in the first place. If she's allowed to stay there. She realizes she's not even sure. Maybe tonight. Tomorrow she might be back on the road again.

But Regina's smile is dry and familiar when she asks, "So, any more relatives I should be aware of?"

When she shakes her head, Regina kisses her cheek (it's not even a proper kiss – just a warm puff of breath on her skin and the hint of the softness of lips), and it's all good.

Her skin tingles where the warmth was just moments ago. She touches the spot with her fingertips and is quite surprised when her skin doesn't feel burning hot. "What was that for?" she asks.

Regina doesn't speak, not right away anyway. It's as if she's surprised by her own actions. She looks very serious when she finally says, "I suppose that was for coming back."

"So you are not going to make me leave town?" When she sees the way Regina's eyes narrow, she realizes that _leaving_ might not be the wisest choice of topic right now, so she hastily adds, "Not that you could do that anyway."

"Oh, you have no idea what I'm capable of," Regina says and, despite the mocking tone, she can detect a hint of relief there.

Despite everything, despite having drug lords for parents and despite the fact that her mother is dead because her son killed her, she smiles. It's all good, it's all good, it's all good.

Or maybe that's a hyperbole if there ever was one. But perhaps it's all going to be _something_ resembling good one day. Maybe it's going to take months, maybe years, but she doesn't really care. She's home. And maybe it's selfish to think so, but that thought sort of tramples any other thoughts and feelings she might be having.

 

**September 1991**

 

It's funny how something like a short segment on the morning newscast that you accidentally catch before leaving for work can destroy the basis of your entire existence.

She's struggling to get the words out, and finally she has to come to the conclusion that she won't be able to do that, and she's just looking at Graham and he's looking right back, concern in his eyes.

"What's wrong, Emma?" he asks and the concern in his eyes intensifies. He always looks like that. He cares too much and he's eager like a puppy. She feels kind of bad that she's sort of counting on that because what she needs him to do next is definitely both illegal and unethical.

"I need a gun," she says.

"A gun?" His brow furrows. "Why would you need a gun?"

Her hands are shaking. Damn it. "Did you see the news?"

"No?" he says and why isn't she surprised? He has never been one to keep up with what's happening outside Storybrooke.

"They got out."

"Who?"

"My parents." It never gets easier to say that out loud. Her parents. What a joke. Of all the people who pretended to be her parents over the years, they are the ones who were that the least. She thinks of her son and her son's other mother and she knows with absolute certainty that blood means nothing when it comes to loving someone.

"What? That's not..." He looks skeptical. As if she'd lie about something like this.

"It's not possible. I _know._ " She's running out of patience, but she needs to remain calm or this will never work out.

"I thought we were looking at twenty years to life."

"So did I, but their defense must have figured something out."

"You'll be safe with us, though. Don't worry. It's called witness protection for a reason."

"Look, Graham. Here's the thing. I don't care what happens to me, but I'm not risking my family. And as long as I'm with them, I _am_ risking them. You know that."

Of course he knows that. She's almost ready for him to point out that that's the precise reason why he warned her about getting involved with anyone who's not in the program or even aware of the fact that there _is_ a program. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to be in a salt-rubbing mood. "They'll never find you or your family," he says instead.

She almost laughs. Yeah, right. "No, you don't understand. They will always find you. Always."

"But it's impossible."

"I know it is. But they already found me once and, well, you know how that went down."

"Emma..."

She knows it's time to appeal to his protective sensibilities. There's no way that's not going to work. "Do you want me to be unarmed when they find me?"

"Emma," he says again, but she sees it in his eyes.

He's already giving in. He's a puppy. He's so easily persuaded by easy smiles and he never sees anything beyond a smile. People usually don't. He's going to fold and she's going to get what she needs from him, and then she's getting the hell out of town.

Maybe if she finds her parents before they find her, she'll be able to sleep peacefully at night. Maybe. The possibility of them finding her first is not an option, at least not while she's still the one who landed them in jail in the first place and especially not while she's anywhere close to the two people she has come to consider her home, her family, her everything.

She just needs one more evening with her family. One last night and then she'll most likely never see them again. She has always been aware of the possibility of this day coming. It's just too soon. It's way too soon.

 


End file.
